


even my phone misses your call

by Alex_Levi



Series: maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry too. [2]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Avengers, F/M, More of a comic book related thing, Non-Infinity War compliant, Non-canon event, Started when Nat lost her memories at the end of winter soldier, The Avengers Are Good Bros, but with more MCU in the mix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 22:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Levi/pseuds/Alex_Levi
Summary: It was him on his birthday a couple of years back, holding a cake that had a million candles on it. It was her with an arm draped around his shoulders, the other hand full of frosting that she decorated his nose with. It was them, in their uniforms still, making faces in front of the camera while Parker took the picture. He remembered her laughing, could almost hear it even."My star. My fate is intertwined with yours."-That time when she lost her memories and he lost every thing.





	even my phone misses your call

**Author's Note:**

> A stand-alone sequel to a fic I wrote years ago.

_**even my phone misses your call** _

_by Alex Levi (One Shot)_

* * *

How do you get back your routine after a life-changing event?

You wake up, you brush your teeth, and that’s it. Maybe you’ll fight aliens on the way to the Starbucks near Central Park that never seems to get your coffee right, or get involve in a car chase on the way to that new Chinese place in the Upper East Side for lunch. By dinner, you’ll probably be somewhere in the middle of South America looking for secret bases from what’s left of Hydra, all the while getting your metal arm grounded by some asshole for dessert.

You’ll fight amateur troops until the break of dawn, perhaps getting a sprained ankle from jumping around so much and for wearing the wrong shoes. Your friend will greet you with injuries of his own, then you’ll give each other updates regarding your mission and who’s killed who. _Eliminate the threats, narrow the targets_. You will possibly doze off for a couple of hours while your friend flies the quinjet, and you’ll get up so that he can get his fair share of rest, too. You don’t know what will happen when you return, you’re not looking forward to anything, anyway.

That’s what happens when you don’t make plans – when your life’s just an endless series of occurrences. It’s not even that impressive, anymore. Not surprising. Nothing major.

He listened to the lulling snores that was of Sam Wilson’s doing, and he’d never admit to the man that he’s taken comfort from it. It gave him the illusion that, at the very least, his friend had the tenacity to get up and look forward to the new day. See the sun and all that bullshit. Be optimistic despite the fact that the barista who had been serving him for about a fucking year never got his fucking coffee right.

God, it’s been almost a year of this apathetic life. He fucking hated it. It’s a living hell. He couldn’t even confide so much to Steve for the reason that he’d – for sure – get Sam to talk to him about post-traumatic stress disorder and how to recover from it and he’d just tell both of them to fuck off. Besides, he hated it when Sam got all sympathetic and shit. He’d rather prefer the hate-love relationship that drove Steve nuts from time to time.

The last time he’d actually been excited was a couple of months back, and even then he’d been confronted by the harsh reality that no, she wouldn’t just remember, and yes, she doesn’t need him looking out for her – she never did, anyway, she just went along with it because he’s important enough to see the vulnerabilities under the covers when all the lights were off. He doesn’t belong under those covers with her anymore.

By the time that the clock read 9:34, Sam’s awake and was sitting beside him, being the jackass he was, “Well, as Steve’s most loyal friend –“ in which earned Sam an exaggerated eye roll – “I get to pick the flavor of the cake.”

“Do whatever you want, I’m not even expecting this to be better than last year’s strawberry ice cream cake that melted. I mean, who even chooses ice cream cake in the middle of fucking summer. Ice cream cakes are stupid and should not be an option for birthday cakes.” He scoffed and rolled his eyes again, just to further emphasize his annoyance to his friend’s poor judgment.

Sam narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, “I don’t remember you complaining after Nat threw the whole thing into the blender and made milkshakes –” and then his eyes widened when he heard what he was saying, “- well.”

As nonchalantly as he could, he replied, “Yeah, but the point stands. Your choices with flavors are never the highlight of the event.”

“If you wanna fight me, let me know right now so we can fucking do this.”

“Sure, maybe Redwing can assist you.”

“Shut the hell up. He’s cute.” Just then, Redwing whirred beside him. Sam rested his hand on the robot and continued to talk about themes and fireworks and that he’d learned his lesson and would order chocolate fudge cake this time.

About a couple of minutes later, the massive gleaming “A” of the Avengers Facility came into view, which meant that Steve would be waiting by the garage for them, possibly anxious, but most of all relieved that they had survived the whole Hydra raid without him.

The Avengers Facility in Upstate, New York had served as a headquarters and a home for them, with permanent rooms assigned to every member’s name. The only permanent residents of the building, however, were Stark, Rhodes, The Vision, Banner, Lang, and the Maximoff girl. Sam went back and forth between Washington and New York, always telling Steve that he was still an active helper at the VA. Meanwhile, Steve had his own apartment in Red Hook from when he woke up from his seven-decade slumber, Thor had his girlfriend’s place to stay at, and Clint had his own farm with his family – and a _whole_ apartment building in Bed-Stuy.

Not so long ago, he had his own place in Brooklyn Heights. Sometimes, that place was shared by two people – one of whom had her own in the East Village in Manhattan. That place gave him so much, yet he couldn’t stomach living there anymore. These days, he’d couch surf between Steve’s apartment (which he hated a lot, since the couch was actually just a very uncomfortable foam with springs protruding from the inside) and his assigned room in the facility, that, to be perfectly honest, was the smallest room there was. The room was barely half of Parker’s, and he’s like ten or something and he’s living with his aunt. Favoritism really played a part in Stark’s room assignments. It’s not just getting the first dibs anymore.

It was five past ten when they had landed, in which Sam had kept quiet all of a sudden, staring directly at the spot next to Steve. He glanced at his friend after switching off the controls. “What?”

Sam turned to him. “Clint’s here. Beside Steve.” He pointed toward the pair.

He raised an eyebrow, “So? He’s part of the team.”

His friend shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. It’s probably nothing. Let’s go.”

The quinjet’s ramp opened down and before they could step foot on the ground, Steve ran to meet them. “Bucky! Sam! You’re a couple of hours behind schedule. What happened?”

“Well, Steve, your friend here had to go get his arm grounded. Had to fix him up as much as I could.” Sam nodded at Clint, “What’s up, Barton? That bad, huh?”

“Great to see you, too, Sam. Well, I had the worst coffee. I think I actually lost faith in Starbucks.” A badly beaten up Clint smirked and crossed his arms, “Barnes.”

He nodded at Clint, “Central Park?” to which the man replied, “Yes!”

“They never got my coffee right either.” He muttered and continued inside, “I’m gonna look for Lang and get this arm running. I’ll catch up with the debriefing later.”

“Wait, Buck –” Steve followed him, seemingly nervous, “I think it’s better if you go to see Tony today. Scott’s busy with something, I –”

Just as they were reaching the common room, a voice he’d not heard from a very long time echoed from inside. He stopped and turned to Sam, to Steve, who looked guilty, and to Barton, who seemed to be suppressing a laughter of his own. “What is she doing here?”

“Buck, it’s just she needed some upgrades with her gears and she couldn’t stand Tony, so she had to get Scott’s help and then –” Steve sighed, “look, I talked about it with Clint and I think it’s better we let her stay in the facility for about a month or two. I just got a memo from Hill and I wanted to get her on board with the mission. It’s espionage; she’s the best person for the job. If it’s hard for you, you can stay at my apartment as much as you want, or I could ask Tony to give you a farther room from the other wing.”

“I’m not gonna lie,” Clint raised his hands defensively, “I think it’s going to be very entertaining. I actually look forward to this. Nat’s been driving me nuts.”

He glanced at Sam, wordlessly asking if he was down to this. “Sorry, man. Cap’s in charge.”

“You didn’t say that when I was the one throwing the goddamn shield.” He grumbled under his breath and went to the lab to look for Tony.

After a while, he found Tony and Banner bent over a massive blue print and discussing specifics. He cleared his throat and sighed, “Stark, can you help me with the maintenance?” He shrugged – or tried shrugging, for that matter – his left arm, numbed from the accident. “Scott’s busy.”

Stark raised an eye brow and straightened up. “Yeah, with Romanoff, right?” Banner cleared his throat and awkwardly went to another table.

He nodded, keeping a flat expression. “It wouldn’t take long. Probably about thirty minutes for you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Sergeant.” Tony walked over to the shelves and retrieved his toolbox. “You still killed my mom and dad. Now, sit on a stool and be pretty.” Stark frequently – by this, meaning as much as he could¬ – made remarks about him killing his parents that it didn’t sting so much anymore, and he thought that perhaps it was his way of moving on since he didn’t say it with as much vile as it had before. After all, the guy was nice enough to let him have a small room in his facility, sleep in a very expensive bed, and actually saw through the upgrades on his metal arm and psychological well-being. For all he cared, Stark could make as many remarks as he wanted.

He sat on a stool a couple of tables away from the blue print and stared straight ahead. He didn’t know how to feel, didn’t even make any move to see her face or greet her like an old friend. Did that make him bitter? No, he couldn’t be. She deserved to make her own choices, and he would forever respect that. So. It’s not that he’s bitter. Maybe surprised? _Yes, that’s it._

It’s just – it’s been, what, a few months back since he actually last saw her? He had sources to know if she’s doing well, but he kept his distance as she wished. Didn’t intervene. Would not intervene as much as he could. But god, why did it feel like the world’s closing in? Why did it feel like his whole body was lit on fire the moment he heard her voice? Why was there a spark of hope inside him, knowing that it wouldn’t change a thing? It’s not her fault she didn’t remember, not her fault she lost her memories of him – it’s his. And he has his whole life ahead of him to suffer on that fact.

“I requested for you to look pretty, Barnes. You look like an emotionless train wreck. It’s embarrassing since Romanoff’s staying here.” Stark sat on the stool beside him and put the necessary tools on the table. “You know, it’s nice seeing you this way, seeing you panic with your robot eyes. I think it’s a great way to get you out of the house.”

He ignored him and just blinked. Tony removed the upper plate and began tinkering, “Really, though, even I, the guy you made an orphan, pitied you. It must be a hell of a rollercoaster of emotion, huh? Did you even greet each other? Tried making a move? Heard from dad you got games back then. Boy, would I wanna show him your face right now. He’ll give you a shit-eating grin for sure –”

Banner calmly interrupted (thank all the gods for him) Tony, not looking up from his work. “Give him some slack, Tony. The guy’s in love with Natasha. That alone could make you chase your own tail.”

“Shut up, Hulk. You don’t get to speak from experience as the former secretary of Romanoff’s Lovers Club. You don’t have the balls to handle her like Android 17 here.”

He was very surprised when he caught himself chuckling, eyes still trained on the wall ahead. “Was that a compliment?”

Banner sniggered and stared at him, “Might as well get the most of it, Sergeant Barnes. Don’t let him hear the end of it.”

“Hey, I don’t need you Romanoff stans ganging up on me –” Stark pressed on a specially sensitive wire that was connected to a nerve ending. “– you owe me, Barnes. You killed my mom.”

“Whoops.” Bruce muttered, getting back to his work.

Stark winked at Bruce, then continued to tinker with his arm. “As I was saying, you should start with the pleasantries. I’m even considering you move to a larger bedroom – you know, the one next to where Romanoff’s staying at. I think it’d be a great sitcom, or like a really depressing romantic comedy. I hope Barton’s down to film the whole thing. Of course, I’m willing to pay the damages – like I always do – when things go wrong, and there’d probably be loads of explosion, and fire. Anyway, I should plan a relocation in case you two both work out your differences and have crazy sex on every surface in the facility and break –”

“Well, that’s nice of you, Stark, but you could’ve just bought stronger furniture.” Someone cut in from the doorway. With wide eyes, he turned around and wished that he had heard someone else. All of the hairs on his arm stood up, and he should maybe close his mouth because he looked like an idiot with it hanging open. Don’t show too much emotion. Don’t act like the guy on the worse side of the break up.

_Maybe turn back to face the wall and subtly listen in the conversation. Wait, abort, don’t do that – just keep it casual, keep it goddamn casual; remember, she doesn’t recall any of it, so it’s basically a one-sided thing now. She probably thinks you’re just some guy with issues and that you and Steve go way back._

Tony shrugged and went back to work, “Hello to you, too, Agent Romanoff. To what do we owe the _pressure?”_

“Just needed a minute with Banner over here. If you’ll excuse us.” She went over to Banner’s table, sat beside him and discussed something in hushed tones, and he couldn’t even take his eyes off her yet. He’s still obviously staring. Stark had to clear his throat to get his attention. “Looking a bit desperate there, Barnes. Maybe stop it with the crazy eyes and get them back to the wall. It’s pathetic.”

He blinked twice and faced the wall again, shoulders slumping. Stark made a face and complained, “Hey, keep still. You’re gonna ruin my masterpiece.”

And so he did; Stark didn’t make any remarks after that. He simply made a few adjustments to the cables and closed the plate, wiping his hands on his Bruce Lee shirt. He walked over to the shelves and placed his toolbox back in place, then strutted toward Banner and her.

He took that as a cue to go and wallow in self-pity and despair – by himself, of course.

A couple of hours later, when he’s contemplating life while lying down on his bed, Steve entered his room without knocking. Honestly, he couldn’t count how many times his not-knocking habit had embarrassed them both. There was one time, back in the forties, when Steve actually caught him practicing his picture-face for that one newspaper interview that the commandos have agreed to do. It was embarrassing then, and it’s still embarrassing now. “Hey, Bucky.”

He removed his stare from the ceiling to glare at his friend, “How many times do I have to tell you to knock?”

“Eh, it just narrows down the options of you being mortified in front of me.” Steve sat on the floor and leaned his back on the bed frame, facing the muted television in front of the bed. “Also, it’s not like you got a girl here or something. I didn’t think you’d leave the door unlocked.”

“That’s beside point, Steve.” He put a hand over his eyes, “What brought you here, anyway? Don’t you have to be in the debriefing with Coulson? I bet he let you off. He gives me the heebie-jeebies. He’s a weird guy.”

“Phil is just overly enthusiastic. He’s a great friend and an even greater agent.”

“He is what you call a _stan._ I heard it from Stark this morning and I looked it up on urbandictionary-dot-com.”

Steve sighed, “You should stop learning new words from Tony. That guy spends too much time on twitter. I follow him. My phone heats up because he kept tagging me in tweets.”

“Maybe I should get twitter.”

“Don’t put a bull’s eye on your head, Bucky. You’re legally dead.” Steve turned off the television and rubbed his eyes. “So… are you coming back to Brooklyn with me or are you staying here tonight? I’m leaving in a few hours.”

“I don’t know. Do you have plans?” He moved to incline his body on the headrest.

“I promised Sharon I’d go with her to her cousin’s art exhibit. I could cancel if you want me to. She’d understand. She knows what happened today.” Steve offered hesitantly.

“What? Shut the hell up and prepare for your date. I can handle myself. I don’t wanna hear you sex it up while I crash on your couch.” He threw a pillow at his best friend’s head, which got out a chuckle from him. “Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I could handle being civil with the Widow. I’m not going to be intoxicated by the promise of the evening.”

Steve turned to face him, shocked, _“What?”_

“What?”

“Seriously?”

He laughed loudly at his dumbfounded expression, “Sorry. Wilson’s been watching rom-coms in his down time and I – well, you know how curious I get. He seemed to be fairly entertained. So I watched it. _Big deal_. That’s probably what I’ll do tonight. I’m going to hit a new low.”

“Oh my god! C’mon, Buck!” Steve protested and stood up, “I can’t be around you – you shame the Commandos! I need an hour away from you so we can be best friends again.” He stomped out of the room and slammed the door.

Steve absolutely hated romantic comedies since he’d known about it – how irrational people could be in those situation. On the other hand, Sam _adored_ romantic comedies. He grew up with three sisters, made him watch it with them, had all these films saved up on his iPad.

He still couldn’t decide where he’d side, but he’s more inclined on Sam’s these past few days.

Sighing, he got up and went over to the window, not realizing that it had started to rain amidst the hot weather. Maybe he should get something to eat? Or, like, order pizza so he wouldn’t have to cook – but then, Clint would eat more than he would and he’d be filled with regret because wouldn’t get what he paid for.

Why shouldn’t he just cook? He’d been wanting to try this new pasta recipe he’d seen from Buzzfeed a couple of weeks ago, and Pepper always kept the pantry full of stock. Nothing could possibly go wrong. It’s not like he was afraid of running into her, he’d never seen her cook all his life. Besides, so what if he ran into her? She’s not a ghost – and it’s not like he’s afraid of ghosts. He’s legally a ghost, and he liked watching romantic comedies. What’s the worst that could happen?

_Alright. Guess I’d cook. No big deal._

And so he exchanged his fighting gear with a pair of sweatpants and a gray shirt, walked to the other wing (and not taking detours!), and strode over the common kitchen. Nobody was there except for Clint, who was making coffee in his purple robe while seated on a bar stool, most parts of his body now bandaged. “What’s up, Barnes? Came to look for Nat?”

He scowled at him, “I hope you’re not going to drink all the coffee again.”

He went over to the tablet above the sink and opened the Buzzfeed app, scrolling down to the _Easy Italian Bolognese_ post. Clint made a disbelieving noise behind him and whined, “Aw, what the hell, Barnes! Just order a box of pizza and be done with dinner! Do you want me to call the pizza place? I’ll call the fucking pizza place!”

He ignored him because he just kept ranting on and on and he didn’t have the patience for that. He retrieve the ingredients from the pantry and a measuring cup from a drawer. The thought about measuring almost, _almost_ made him rethink everything and just get some pizza, but goddamn it he’d cook this out of spite.

In the middle of measuring the red wine, he decided to fuck the measurements and try to let the whole thing taste as it would be. He’d be the only one eating it, anyway, so who the hell would care?

When he got to the step where he’d have to wait for two hours, he faced Clint again, because he knew those two hours would pass by in no time. “You sure you didn’t want any?” He gestured to the pot, “I could give you a plate or two.” _Pause_ “Probably just one.”

Clint hooted, shaking his head exaggeratedly. “Nope, I’d rather live to see tomorrow. I have a date.”

“Nice to know, Barton. Nice to know.”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna take my date to a park – or maybe a beach? I could bring some pizza, we can play something.” He continued, smirking. “Maybe there’ll be licking involved. Possibly biting, but you know, just for play. Then go back to the apartment, lounge in the couch, eat some more pizza, get licked again –”

By this point, it’s _just_ about fifteen minutes since he left the pot to simmer. He went back to check if the sauce hadn’t dried all the way out, and added a little bit of chicken broth still.

“– and then, how ‘bout I play Dog Cops on my laptop. I mean, I got the whole thing! I had the DVDs, but I think Kate got ‘em. Which means I can’t get it back in the next couple of weeks at least – oh hey, Nat!”

“Hope you’re not talking about your and Lucky’s date tomorrow, Clint.”

Oh, how he wished to be one with the wall right now. _“Lucky?_ As in the dog? Not Laura?” He mouthed to himself, frowning.

“It smells kinda great here. You cooking, Barnes?” He turned around as he was addressed directly, hoping to god his eyes weren’t wide and his mouth wasn’t open in that stupid-looking way. Since he didn’t trust how his voice would’ve sounded, he just simply nodded and watched as she sat next to her best friend, directly in front of him on the other side of the bar.

“Oh, from Buzzfeed?” She commented, “Yeah, that’s too much time.” She snatched the decanter from Clint’s hand and drank from it, frowning. “Should’ve put more cream in this. It’s terrible.”

“It’s still way better than the one on Central Park.” Clint glanced at him, “Right, Barnes?”

He cleared his throat and nodded, “Yeah, _yes.”_ He turned back to the pot, really, really uncertain about what’s happening. He couldn’t even think. His mind was literally playing static. It’s times like these that he knew that Steve was actually the better public speaker between the two of them. Before, he’s got the confidence of twenty five pre-serum Steven Rogers on a good day and a pretty decent haircut to distract people from what he’s saying. Now, he’s just – well, he’s an awkward mess and the barber from last month’s haircut fucked his hair up that he had to put hair gel to get the shaggy parts out of his face. “Uh – you, _well,_ you wanna stay for late-lunch-slash-dinner? I got a couple of plates to spare.”

“Aw, Barnes, you’re cute. You told me you only had one more plate to share.” Clint teased, taking the decanter back. “That’s cute.”

“You told me you didn’t want any. Jerk.”

She gave him a quirky smile in that way of hers that he knew she was going to be affirmative. It’s nice to see that some habits of her haven’t changed. Even if she didn’t remember that he knew.

“Well, if you’ll _insist.”_

And he couldn’t help but smile a bit, “Yeah, alright. I insist.” He lowered the heat and went to the refrigerator, taking out a carton of orange juice, then he reached out to the cupboard and retrieved a glass – _wait_ – two glasses, just in case.

He noticed that she was looking at the two glasses impishly when he laid them out on the bar, then he noticed that her gaze went up to his face.

Now, he was mostly a very, very keen observer. He could actually notice minor details a few hundred feet from a target, could predict certain movements before he shoot long distance, could calculate the velocity in which a mark would move before he fired. But this close, he just noticed how recently she had removed her make up – maybe not even a couple of hours had passed – and that she had worn an arrow necklace, probably courtesy of Barton. She haven’t combed her shoulder-length hair as often these past few months because it’s just the waviest he’d seen it, and it was more on the shade of orange now than it was on the shade of red. She was wearing a black robe with a red hour glass embroidered on the collar, in which the red shirt underneath might be the one that had _“LANGUAGE! – Steve Rogers (2015)”_ printed on it that Tony had gotten for them in five different colors.

Holy shit, had he been staring long? It felt like long. Might be not as long as he thought. Barton certainly hadn’t made any quips. Maybe only just a few seconds had passed? Anyway, he should keep the conversation flowing before everything fell apart. “Would you like some juice? I think the thing –” he gestured to the pot, “– would take more than an hour or so.”

She nodded, “Maybe you should start with the pasta now?”

_Oh shit. The fucking pasta._ “Right. Sorry, just a little distracted... from the mission.” He grinned at her sheepishly and opened the bag of linguine. After getting the water to boil, he added a sprinkle of salt and pepper, then threw the pasta in. And finally, he poured orange juice in the two glasses in front of her. “There you go.”

Barton snorted, “You’re _bizarrely_ unlike yourself, Barnes. I wonder why that is.”

“And you used ‘bizarrely’. I guess we’re both just out of sorts, Barton.” He replied, glaring.

“Doesn’t this feel strangely like Masterchef, Nat?” Clint ignored him, turning to her. “I feel like Gordon Ramsey. Well, I think I _look_ a bit like him.”

“You flatter yourself too much, _Hawk-boy.”_ She shrugged, grabbing the glass and drinking from it. Her best friend frowned at him, only now addressing that he didn’t get offered a glass. “Hey! Why didn’t you pour me one? I should get special treatment like Nat did.” He gave him a challenging look, clearly joking, but still demanding an answer.

He rolled his eyes, “You’d upset your stomach, Barton. You’ve been drinking coffee all day.”

“Right. _That’s_ the reason.” Clint taunted, wagging his eyebrows. “Talking to you – _wow!_ – I’ve just realized how nice the color purple would go with that star on your shoulder! I’m not even kidding – purple suits you, Barnes!”

She shrugged, “I rather liked the black on red, but I think the purple could work.”

“Okay, _whoa_ –” He raised both of his hands in offense, “– I’m gonna stop you right there. Okay. First of all, purple is the color of evil. Like, have you two recently watched Disney? Because all the villain in that shit’s purple. The octopus lady, the evil queen, the color-changing monster, Yzma!” He paused to let that sink in, “Second, it’s just a mixture of blue and red. It’s stupid and it’s not a primary color. Sorry, man. Won’t change my mind.”

“You don’t have to be so grouchy about it, Barnes. Purple _is_ a nice color.” Clint pressed, finishing the coffee from his decanter. “It’s a nice color on Nat. She’d undoubtedly change her tac suit if you’d paint over your star.”

“I can maybe consider it.” She agreed, eyeing him daringly. “I’m planning to dye my hair platinum blonde. I’m sure Stark would allow it. Banner’s been wearing a purple dress shirt since I’ve first seen him. I actually think he only had one dress shirt – or maybe ten dress shirts, but with the same color.”

“Couldn’t agree more. Purple can get you anywhere. Plus, there’s no hassle in wearing purple. Banner gets it. It’s the only color that would suit him.” Barton pointed out, grabbing a piece of purple grape from his robe pocket. “Just imagine a purple Iron Man suit, or a purple Falcon gear! It’s gender neutral and it promotes awareness for interpersonal violence and abuse prevention.”

“I’m never changing the star to purple. I might finally stick out if you all would be wearing purple.” Just then, he noticed that the pair in front of him exchanged a brief look with each other, and if he hadn’t been paying much attention, he would have missed it. And he noticed the _tell._

And that was when it clicked. They were betting on who could persuade him to change the color of the star to purple. Sons of bitches. “I see what you two are doing.”

“What?” She asked casually, and if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she really didn’t know what he was talking about.

Barton rolled his eyes and moaned, “Aw, Nat! You did the tell, didn’t you?”

She looked insulted. “I don’t have tells. I wouldn’t be so good at my job if I have tells.”

“Well, there are three people in this world who know of your tell and two of them are in this room.” Barton confirmed, nodding. “So, yeah. You do.”

Amused, he returned to stirring the sauce and lowering the heat of the pasta. There was a moment of silence before he heard her let out a low chuckle. “Tell me what tells I have. Or I might just kill you both.”

“It’s not _tells._ Not plural, no. You only have one and I’m not _tell_ ing.” Clint teased, clearly trying to get a few laughs. “Maybe you can persuade Barnes. But from what I’ve seen, he’s made of stone. Impenetrable.”

She snorted, “I’m not that surprised about you knowing, Clint. But Barnes – _damn._ Respect.”

Alright, he was almost positive she would high-five him.

He smiled to himself and drained the linguine, then placed a cling wrap over it for later. “Well,” he started, facing them, “this will take at least about an hour and a half. You guys wanna watch a film later?”

Clint raised his brow, “What film?”

“Oh, you two would _love_ this.”

And so more than hour later, the three of them were inside the screening room, pasta bowls in hand. Clint was seated in the middle of them, fumbling for his vibrating phone. “Holy shit, this is the greatest thing I’ve ever watched, what the fuck!”

Even she was smiling, and honestly, it was more entertaining to watch her than the movie. She made faces when she smiled, like she was going to laugh loudly but then it was like she caught herself so she ended up biting her lips instead. “I mean, your pasta’s a bit salty, but hey, it’s quality film. I can’t complain.” She gestured to the massive screen using her fork, eyes wide with delight.

He grinned, pointing to the screen. “Look, look. This is the best part!” The moment Steve knocked out Hitler in the face, they all cheered and pumped their fists. But then, the present Steve poked his head inside. “What are you guys watchin’ – fucking hell, Bucky!” He marched over to the screen, as if to block the film. “How did you get this? I locked this in my china cabinet!”

“Stop spoiling the mood, captain. It’s a great film!” Clint threw a pillow at Steve’s head, “It’s not like we haven’t seen you in tights!”

“Well, _have you_?” Steve asked, clearly bothered and still haven’t moved in front of the screen. “I use kevlar in my uniform now.”

“Stop it with the fancy talks. Don’t you have a date with Peggy’s niece?” He immediately quipped, eyebrow raised, glancing at the clock above the door. “It’s nearly six. I thought you went home two hours ago.”

Steve observed the clock, “Coulson kept me a bit longer –”

“What, to sign his trading cards?” She commented, lips twisting into a challenging smirk. His best friend rolled his eyes and exhaled noisily, “Can you all just shut the hell up about Phil – he’s a nice guy and an even greater agent! And – well, I’m going to be late because of you, Bucky. You’ll pay for this another time.”

He marched out of the screening room and when he passed by him, he punched him in the arm.

Of course, Steve had always have a mean punch – even back in the thirties. However presently, it had been harder and harder for him not to flinch whenever he took a hit from him. Obviously, his everything had been enhanced as hell, but _damn,_ sparring with Steve was not his favorite hobby at all.

He’d like to think that he contained his wince discreetly.

“Well, now that the spoilsport’s gone, maybe we should get Tony in this.” Barton called for FRIDAY, who called Tony. And that’s when the party started.

After being thoroughly amused that night, Steve _did_ make him pay for it less than a week later. On a Tuesday morning.

At four o’clock A.M. that day, his best friend strode in his room and flicked his switch on and off until he opened his eyes and got out of bed. “Do you have any idea what time it is, you jerk?” He exclaimed angrily, pulling the covers over his head.

Steve shrugged, “I’m informed.” Then he threw a shirt at him, “C’mon, let’s go for a run. You owe me.”

He groaned, sitting up and rubbing his face with his right hand. “Can you just… don't? I’ve just gone home from a mission,” he glimpsed at the clock on his bedside, “about three hours ago.”

“Buck, you went to a three-hour mission with Scott. In _Westchester.”_ Steve complained, pulling him up. “It’s hardly an assignment. You just went to get intel. You’d tire more if you go grocery shopping in the whole foods store.”

“Well, I had another mission the night before. And the night before that. And the night before that. _And_ the night before that. Besides, Scott’s a handful partner.”

“Okay, Buck, I get it. You’re competing for the employee of the month. I get it. I’ve been there.” He raised his hands defensively while he put the shirt over his head. “I don’t even know what’s with the hoarding of the assignments. It’s not like Nat’s gonna bite you in your sleep.”

He stared right in his eyes, “I’m not gonna say that’s a pleasant idea, but it’s not much of a bother as you would’ve thought.”

Steve frowned, “Oh, god – Bucky! I don’t wanna hear about how you get off!” He, then, tossed him his running shoes. “Look, I’ve seen you at your best with Nat. So, well, what if you go for her again? _You know_ , ignite the fire and all that shit.”

He shrugged, “I think, _Steve,_ the most important thing here is that all of us get our jobs done – in our _own_ lane. Am I not being obvious enough? I’m saying that we should mind our own goddamn business.”

“I know I’m not the guy who people usually goes for _love advice_ – I almost cringed at that.” Steve shuddered at the thought, ignoring him. “But the least you could do is be friends. Don’t avoid her. She’s a very nice, scary lady.”

“We _are_ acquaintances. You don’t go with that much history to be _just_ friends.” He grumbled, tying his shoes. “So, are we gonna run or what? I’m going back to sleep if you’re going to continue lecturing me.”

Steve sighed, and both of them headed out. At their second lap around the compound, his best friend opened the topic again. “Let’s invite her for drinks. Maybe get you two to talk about things. Bet you guys have a lot to talk about.”

“You do know that I can still outrun you, pal.”

“That’s not the topic at hand, but it’s good to know your vanity is still intact.”

“Alright, you wanna know why I don’t wanna be friends with her? Why I kept avoiding her?” He snapped, running faster. “I told her things I never told anyone else. Things I haven’t even told you. Dark things. And you don’t come back from that, Steve. You don’t. The woman I told those secrets – she doesn’t remember that person, pal. She ain’t coming back. Not with the right way.”

Steve halted, frowning. “You know what, Buck? You’re being a real dick right now. Just because she doesn’t remember a thing about you doesn’t mean she’s not Natasha. She’s not less of a person than she was before she lost her memories of you.”

He also stopped and turned to face him, “That’s not what I mean. That is never what I mean. You wouldn’t know how much it hurts to be around a person you love who doesn’t remember _even_ knowing you. You don’t know how much it hurts when she looks at you with the same eyes, but not in the way you’re used to.”

“I _do_ know. How did you think I feel when you didn’t recognize me?” He let that sink in the way Steve Rogers did. “Look, you’re all darkness, Buck. I don’t wanna see you like that no more. Just see it this way – maybe, now that she doesn’t remember that darkness, she’s got more light to give you. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s all going to hell this time. And as much as it hurts, what else are you going to lose?” He walked up to him, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t think about it so much like you did the last time. Believe me when I say that everything will fall right into their places. I mean, look at us – d’you think we’d be standing here after what happened then?”

He scowled at his best friend, “So is this how you’re making me pay? Me listening to a punk’s sermon?”

Steve laughed, starting to run again. “You’re the worst, Bucky. The worst.”

“Don’t even think that I can’t catch up with you just because you got the head start.” He ran, and ran until he caught up with him, and ran some more until he’s ahead.

For breakfast, the two of them went to a nearby twenty-four-seven diner, Pots and Pans, which served one of the best pancakes they have ever tasted. Basically, it’s better than the one Grandma Rogers used to make, and that’s saying something. Of course, he was very much a favorite customer – about a third of his salary was spent here. He even have a name on the menu: _Bucky from the Block_ , which consisted of five pancakes (stacked), whipped cream, and a hell lot of honey and melted butter. Sometimes, depending on the availability and time of the day, it had bacon and eggs on the side.

It so happened to be half past seven in the morning, and surely, the bacon’s not yet done for.

Adelene, the blonde old lady who runs the place with her husband, Marcel, usually came in by five. They both grew up in France, where she got the recipe for about half of their menu. Settled in for nearly ten years in the country before they left for the US. Had been living here since the mid-80’s.

She stopped wiping the tables when they entered, waving and smiling as the two of them sat in their usual booth. Steve went for the hug when she went over to their table, while he just gave her the typical pleasantries. She knew that he wasn’t the touchy-feely guy, so she never bothered. Didn’t change the fact that she still favored him than Steve.

“My favorite boys. Marcel is actually getting a little bit jealous.” She beamed, obviously happy that they finally ate here again. They’ve been busy with missions and more often than not they weren’t in town by this time of the day. “I’ve missed you two. I wish you’d come around frequently.”

“We’ll try to come around regularly again, Adelene.” He assured her, “We’re out of town these past few weeks.”

She nodded, an arm still wrapped around Steve’s waist. “I’m just happy you boys are fine. And I’m not sure, but I think I’m missing people here.” Adelene frowned up at him, “Where are your friends? And where’s my favorite girl? It’s been forever since I last saw her. It’s been about a year, isn’t it?”

Steve shrugged, “You better ask this guy right here. She’s his favorite girl too.”

“We’re… well, we’re not together anymore, Adelene. I’m disappointed as well.” He muttered, licking his lips. She chuckled and let go of Steve. “Alright, alright. I’ll get your usuals. And you,” she pointed at him using her dishrag, “should get her back. She’s good for you. Gets your best smile out.”

She gave him one last knowing look and went to the kitchen.

Steve sat in front of him, reading the morning paper. “Oh look. You’ve made the front page.” He showed him the paper, in which the building they raided last night in Westchester was printed on the bottom left of the page. “You only came to get intel, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes. Turns out all their information are in paper. Not gonna lie, Scott basically did all the rummaging. I’m just the muscle. Don’t wanna take all the credit.” He winked at him then played with the salt shaker. Steve rolled his eyes and continued reading.

Just then, the chime on the door clinked, and he turned to see Clint and Sam entering the door. He whistled to get their attention, nodding at their booth.

The two went up to them, and Sam sat beside Steve, while Clint sat beside him.

“I suddenly feel like we’re in high school again.” Clint remarked, nudging his side. “Y’know, eating meals together and all that.”

Sam scoffed, “So it is you who makes us sound gay. You’re not even making an effort - _hey,_ don't look at me that way, Barnes. Stark showed me some very eye-opening blogs last night.”

He smirked, “Clint doesn’t make it too hard. Anyway, what are you two doing here?”

“We just got home from sorting out Hell’s Kitchen and there’s no food in the fridge. To be honest, _that’s_ rude.” Clint replied, “How are you awake at this hour?” He gestured at Steve, who couldn’t be bothered to look up from his paper. _Old man_. “Steve woke up early so he gotta drag me in his hell-hole. You know the drill.”

Sam snorted and made a face like he could totally relate. “What’s taking Nat so long? It’s not like it’s hard to find a parking space here. The only people in this diner either came from their morning jogs or belong in a biker gang. Or had to rethink their choices getting drunk on a Monday night.”

“Wait, Nat’s _here?_ She came with you guys last night?” He asked, hoping his interest in the matter wouldn’t be a topic for Clint’s entertainment.

“Yes. She actually discussed some things with Murdock – you do know that he used to go out with her, right?” Sam answered, “Anyway, he helped us with the intel on the tracksuit mafia regroup going ‘round next town. _And_ don’t worry, man, they weren’t super friendly.”

Clint raised his hand and called the waitress, a sixty year old brunette named ‘Martha’, “Two Bucky from the Block, please! Don’t forget the bacon!”

“You got it, tough guy.”

He chuckled, “God, I love saying that. _Bucky from the Block_. I love Becky G and I love it. And Barnes, you don’t have to get all jealous. Murdock is with that Greek girl again. Nachos? Nathos? I don’t know why I even bother.”

“It’s _Natchios,_ Barton. And they weren’t together, technically.” Sam quipped as the Martha served them their coffees. Clint shrugged and made a face as if to say _‘What’s the difference?’_

“Oh, there goes Nat. Finally.” Steve nodded his head toward the door.

And there she was, gathering her hair in a ponytail. She pulled up a chair from another table and smiled when Martha nodded at her. “What should I get? Is there a menu or something?” She asked.

“There is, but Bucky has his own place in the menu so you should just get that.” Steve suggested, eyes back on the paper. “You should order now. The owner makes ‘em from scratch. It takes time.”

She raised a hand to get the Martha’s attention, “One –” she glanced at Steve. _“Bucky from the Block.”_ He answered, ignoring her amused look. “Bucky from the Block, please.”

“Alright, dear. You don’t want your usual?” Martha shouted, pouring her a cup of coffee.

She gave her a dumbfounded look, her composure lost at the moment. “I have a usual?” Then, she looked at them and mouthed, “What’s _my_ usual?”

For the first time since she came in, he spoke. “Yeah, Martha. I think she’ll like her usual. _Thank you.”_

Martha rolled her eyes but nonetheless gave him a friendly smile, “You remind me so much of my son, Bucky.” She, then, made her way back behind the counter and queued up her order. “Natasha’s here, Adelene! She’ll have her usual!”

“Since when do I have a usual?” She asked him, her amusement from earlier gone. “It’s my first time here.”

“Looks like you guys have something to talk about.” Steve gave him a knowing look, which made him fold his paper and, together with Sam and Clint, move to another booth.

Clint whistled, “Good luck with that, Barnes. You’re gonna need it.”

He gave Sam a pleading look when he lightly tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re on your own, man.”

_Shit. Not ready._ “Yes. Yeah. It’s ham and turkey sandwich, no tomatoes, two cheeses.” He answered her when she moved to vacate Steve’s previous seat. “You have more questions, I’m sure.”

“ _I do_. So what the hell? How do they know me?” She searched for answers in his eyes, where he knew she’d get instantly. He blinked and removed any expression from them, then looked right back at her. “We all used to go here.”

“That _often?_ No, wait – I’ve been missing a lot of my years, I know that. And I kept looking for answers. Why do you think I operated by myself for so long?” Her brows moved ever so slightly, her tone lower than a whisper. “This is one of them, isn’t it? I don’t remember ever being here, but it's too familiar.”

He didn’t answer. She took a deep breath, knowing that his silence meant an affirmative response. “If we _all_ used to go here, how come you’re the only one with the name on the menu?”

“They loved me the most, I guess.” He let out a small smile, looking down at his cup. “Steve has his usual, like you do.”

She frowned, her face an open book for the first time in a long time. “But the only time I’ve been with you long-term was that mission in Prague you hijacked a few months back. I can’t remember another instance apart from Steve’s birthday last year.”

“I remember, and you rescued that hell of a cake.”

“Stop avoiding the question, Barnes.”

He sighed, “Look, is this really the time for this? Do you wanna go there? It’s a nice day, Natasha. Let’s just get breakfast and be on our way. I doubt you had as much sleep as I had.”

“You owe me this, Barnes.” She pushed, and he realized how much he owed people things. And now annoyed that these people kept getting him back in the same day. “Give me something, come on. Give me something to start with. I’ve been in the cold for too long.”

“I’m not the guy you should be asking. I’m... I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”

Her fist clenched. “You know my tell so you’re obviously lying.”

It was as if Adelene heard the pleas inside his head when she opened the door of the kitchen and ran to them with his order.

She immediately changed her expression to a more approachable one and removed her eyes from his face. “Good morning. The coffee’s great, as always.”

Adelene sat down beside him, affectionately smiling at both of them. “I’ve missed you so much, Natasha. Please come around more often – Bucky here gets so lonely eating by himself.”

He grimaced, certain that she wasn’t going to let the topic go. “Stop embarrassing me, _Adelene._ I’m sure Nat’s been busy.” He let his eyes meet hers. Her expression was playful, and her eyes nothing but. “I wasn’t in town this past year, but I _will_ come around often. And I’ve missed your sandwiches, Adelene.”

The old lady clasped her hands together happily, “Look at you two – the sparks still there. You should give him another chance, Natasha. He’s such a sweet guy. I doubt you’d find another one perfect for you.”

He sighed, covering his face. “Why can’t you just get her order, ma’am? I’ll take care of the wooing, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Well, I’d like to see you try, Buck.” She responded, but nevertheless got up and prepared her order.

When Adelene was out of earshot, she grabbed his hand to remove it from his face. “How about that, Barnes? You don’t wanna explain that?”

He glanced at their hands and as much as it pained him, he removed it from her grasp. “She’s just an old woman who likes us to get together. Is that the answer you’re looking for?”

“Is that the whole thing or just another part of this?”

He thought about it for a moment.

Why couldn’t he just tell her? Wasn’t this what he wanted, for her to remember? Surely, she wouldn’t be a fool enough to look for extraneous ways to get her memories back. But what happens then, if she got her memories back? The worst case scenario would be her hating him because he’s the reason her mind’s been trampled with. She’d hate him, but hey, he already hit rock bottom. Steve’s right. What else could he lose?

No, that’s not the worst-case scenario. The worst case would be that when the time comes that she regained her memories of him, she remembered everything they’ve been through, and every history between them – the pain, the love, the good stuff – that she wouldn’t remember feeling it. Where could he go from that? When the only thing that’s been keeping him here was the hope that someday they’d come around.

But she’s right, like she always was. He owed her this, and he owed her so much more; he’d give her his life if she needed him to.

He closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, then he looked at her. She searched his eyes again for answers, now that he’d opened it up for her to read.

Oh god, the lump in his throat was growing. He might start to cry.

He took out his worn out, leather bi-fold wallet that she bought for him at a flea market in Barcelona. In the picture slot was a photo of him with the whole gang in Steve’s party last year – even Banner was in that photo. In one of the card slot, however, he retrieved a polaroid of him and her, its edges damaged from the amount of times he took it out and reminisced.

It was him on his birthday a couple of years back, holding a cake that had a million candles on it. It was her with an arm draped around his shoulders, the other hand full of frosting that she decorated his nose with. It was them, in their uniforms still, making faces in front of the camera while Parker took the picture. He remembered her laughing, could almost hear it even.

She gave it to him the day he left for a mission based in Ukraine.

“Can I see that?” She murmured, opening her palm. He put the photo in her grasp and smiled sadly. “It was yours to begin with.”

Her expression was unreadable, and she looked at the photo without giving much of what she’s thinking. “ _My star. My fate is intertwined with yours._ ” She read the writing on the small part below the image. “I wrote this.” It wasn’t a question, though. A claim.

_“Yeah._ Yes, you did.” He confirmed, and he couldn’t help but look away because she was still staring at the picture. “I should go. You should… you should get your mind around it. I’ll have Martha to wrap this up.”

“No… You should definitely stay, it’s your lair – I’ll go.” She said, brows furrowed. She moved to stand up, but he took his plate and walked to the counter before she could even get up from her seat.

Steve stood beside him as he waited for his take out, all the while he could see Clint and Sam beside her, their plates untouched. “C’mon, I’ll go back with you at the compound.”

“Just stay here, Steve. I need some time alone. Don’t follow me.” He took his bag from Martha and paid his bill. Didn’t bother getting the change.

He could hear Martha talk to Steve, “Finally got that closure, huh?”

“God, I hope not.” His best friend replied.

He ran back to the compound to get his things and inform Coulson that he’d be taking a break. His vacation days would be more than enough. Besides, he could take a couple of assignment without going to the headquarters. He would be fine. It’s not like they’ll fire him or something.

That night, he found himself walking down the streets of Brooklyn Heights, a leather duffel slung across his shoulders. He walked until he passed by his building, and walked some more until he reached the Irish bar at the corner of the street.

When he entered the bar – or pub, no matter how the fancy Irish people wanted to call it – it wasn’t as packed as he’d expected for a weeknight. Suffice it to say, he’s happy that they’re making better decisions on a Tuesday night. Indeed, it seemed like New Yorkers were continuously improving.

He went to sit on a bar stool and lowered his bag on the floor. The bartender – who, he guessed, was barely in his late-twenties – looked away from the replay of 2012’s Super Bowl championship between the Giants and the Patriots. “What can I get you?” He asked, clearly bored with the fact that he was serving a guy who had no idea where he’d go rather than a fresh grad with a lot of time and poor decisions.

“Bottle of Everclear.” He requested, propping his chin on his knuckle. The bartender opened his mouth, but he spoke before the man could. “You better get me that bottle under the counter, son.”

The bartender eyed him warily, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t worry about the money. I’ll pay you.” He muttered, tired of arguing. He had enough to last the day.

The guy shrugged and reached down the bar, retrieving a bottle of clear liquid with a peeled label. “Are you a cop?”

“ _Seriously_? Should you be asking that to a cop?” He raised a brow, snatching the bottle from his hand. Using his left hand, gloved, he twist the cap open and took a long swig.

“Shit, dude. You’re gonna kill yourself.” The bartender said as he watched him, forgetting the game. He snorted and shooed him away. The guy apparently didn’t get the message. “If you’re not a cop and you can drink like a freaking Russian, are you a mobster?”

“Why? You gonna call the cops on me?” He took another sip, “Just get back to your game, son. Leave the old man alone.”

“Old man? You’re, like, just in my age range. You’re a vet, then?”

He licked his lips, “You could put it like that.”

“My gramps fought in the Vietnam War way back. I’m Leo, by the way. Who are you?” Leo offered his hand. He glared at it and swatted it away. “I fucking hate your name.”

Leo frowned, “Dude, you don’t have to be personal. It’s not like I chose it.”

“Just get out of my face.” He grumbled, “I had a really shitty day, Leo.”

“I figured that. Now, if you want me to get out of your way, you gotta pay me for that bottle.”

He tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the surface of the bar. “Better get me another bottle. I have no change. God, I wished I went to a convenient store instead – there isn’t this much talking.”

Leo rolled his eyes and handed him another bottle, putting the money in the register and turning back to the game. _Finally._

For all its worth, he couldn’t get drunk out of his wits. He tried drinking a particularly strong Polish vodka one bottle after another, but less than an hour later, his buzz was gone. It was one of those minor inconveniences he’d sometimes wish would be available to his use again, but hey, he could devour nine cheeseburgers in one sitting and make the most of an all-you-can-eat buffet without losing his shape. He supposed he was in a good place.

Besides, it was so much fun to watch assholes in bars squirming when he drank straight up.

After he finished his first bottle, he hid the other one in his bag and headed out.

It was a great evening to be out. It’s cool for a summer night, nothing of the sort that would make your skin sticky with sweat. If he didn’t feel like garbage tonight, he’d probably agree on sparring with Steve, or dick around with Barton – maybe even plan the party with Hill and Sam. Or, like, finally finish that novel he’d stopped reading forever ago.

So, with nowhere else to go, he conceded and went to his old apartment a couple of buildings down. He hoped Stark’s energy source would work because damn, he was five months behind his bills. He’s not even sure if his water pipes weren’t blocked or something. Whatever, he had lived in a much worse condition than a bathroom without running water.

His apartment was located between two buildings, both higher than the four-story glory that it was in the late 80’s. It had a black wooden door with a brass knob, and the brick walls were newly painted green – last he’d seen, it was red. The land was owned by some big shot from Harvard, who sold the suites instead of having them rented.

The owner lived on the second floor, said he didn’t want unfamiliar faces all over the building. Said he’s too old to remember lots of names, and he wanted to get to know the tenants enough to have them over for Thanksgiving dinner. Nice guy, quiet neighbor. Never had any complain.

He unlocked the front door and climbed the four set of steel stairs from the first floor to his apartment. It was nearing eleven in the evening, and the three other doors on the floor were very likely settled for the night. He didn’t bother tiptoeing across the hall because he was always a light mover – he would be very bad at his job if he wasn’t.

There were paper envelopes jammed by the threshold – probably some mixed up mail with that polite old lady next door who always gave him oatmeal cookies every Friday he’s in the building. He undid the lock of his apartment door and picked up the envelopes, noticing that most of them were bills past due and others were first notice. He’d get that sorted out later.

When he flipped the switch on its familiar placement by the left side of the door, the light didn’t turn on. There must’ve been a disconnection notice somewhere in the stack of mail in his hand. He fumbled for the flashlight in his bag and went to the kitchenette to start up a slightly larger version of Stark’s arc reactor, which he plugged into its socket and watched as the device emitted a blue light. Almost immediately, the light for the switch he’d turned on lit up.

God, the whole place was a mess.

There were dusts on every surface of the apartment, and there would possibly be no space available to sleep on without inhaling dust bunnies. The fridge stinks of rotten eggs or something – there’s probably a forming of moulds inside the drip pan. He could actually hear cockroaches moving in the cabinet under the sink – and that’s just the common area.

When he entered the bedroom, it smelled as bad as it looked like: stuffy and a hell lot of unwashed clothes. There were cobwebs on the corners of the ceiling and the white duvet had dried stains on it. His closet was full of sooty cardboard boxes that he probably used when he moved in. He’s almost afraid of checking the bathroom. No wonder he left this place and didn’t look back. It’s such a mess. But at least he had something to keep him busy, right? Thank heavens his Ma had trained him to look after the house while she’s gone.

Sighing, he grabbed his keys and his wallet, then went down to that 24-hour market at the next street.

It was very surprising that there were actually a lot more people shopping this late than at, like, noon. He was used to people being asleep or shady at this time of the night, and it was really nice to see that normal people were awake and were not doing anything that would arise suspicion. Or Steve’s ability to see the good in everybody had just rubbed off on him.

He walked down aisle 8, where they stacked a whole variety of cleaning supplies. He picked up three buckets, a couple of mops, a pack of rubber gloves, a dozen of sponges, a whole lot of black bags, about five kinds of brushes, and a nice broom. There was a sweet deal on a box of toilet paper, so he got some of those as well. Then, he got those powders and cleaning agents from that commercial that had a really terrible jingle that got stuck in everyone’s head, and four cans of Lysol disinfectant spray – and he didn’t bother with the scent, just got the same colors. When he went to the self-checkout lane, the guy from the other counter glanced at his purchases and shook his head. He wondered if he got something that’s not a great variant, but he reckoned the guy was just uninterested. Anyway, the whole thing cost him 300 dollars, and if it wasn’t such a bad day, he would’ve had a heart attack.

It’s just a really great coincidence that Barton’s black card was with him.

He bagged everything, and even with his superpower of packing wisely, he still ended up with five bags. The problem at hand was about how he could transport everything in one trip, and he wasn’t problematic about the weight – god knows he’d carried heavier objects more than this lifetime would require, but five bags were just… bulky. Especially if the mop handles and the buckets were sticking out.

He figured he’d hail a cab, but it’s just one street. He could walk from his apartment to this store in four minutes and twenty-six seconds, and he was really, _really_ against luxury spending. Anyway, he could leave two of the five bags for a while then just make another trip, but as much as he loved New York, he didn’t trust New Yorkers.

Finally, he settled for just getting the shopping cart he’d used to transport his grocery and return it after. The security guy was sleeping when he reached the exit, so he just went outside without breaking a sweat. It’s not like he stole anything, and he’d get the cart back the moment he’s done carrying his bags up to his apartment. Besides, he had a receipt.

The moment he walked back inside his apartment, he could tell that he had one more problem at hand – the water. How the fuck could he clean the motherfucking house without water? Goddamn it. If he wasn’t such a firm believer of luck, he’d guessed he doesn’t have any.

And there’s only one solution to that: Stark.

He fished his phone from his pocket, booting it up. There were a hell lot of missed calls from Steve and Sam, a couple hundred of _‘pick up the call man’_ messages from Clint, and just a _‘Be back at the compound by the next week. No excuses.’_ from Hill.

He deleted his phone history and went through the T’s in his contact. When he glanced at his watch, he supposed Tony was still awake, so he went ahead and dialled him. A few rings later, FRIDAY connected his call to his boss. “What’s up, 2007 Pete Wentz?”

“What – who?” He frowned, shaking his head. “Never mind, I’d never get the reference. You in front of your computer or something?”

He could almost hear Tony rolling his eyes. “Why?” “I don’t have water in my apartment. Was hoping you could do some… _typing?”_

“Why don’t you just drive back to the compound? You know, office hours are _way_ over.”

“Can you do something or not?”

Tony paused, but it’s probably just for effect. He could actually hear him typing. “I could. Only if you say the magic word.”

“Please?”

“Eh. Try again.”

He rolled his eyes, “You have better facial hair than Stephen Strange.”

“Ding ding ding!” Tony exclaimed, and he went over to the sink and turned the knob. At first, there was a bit of rusty water with quite a few bugs, but then the water turned clear. “It’s running, Stark. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He dropped the call and turned the water off. He had to get the cart back to the store.

At seven in the morning, the common area and the bathroom were both squeaky clean, and he was so very tired. He got a couple of clothes from his bag and cleaned himself up, then made himself a cup of instant coffee. It’s the only thing not past its expiration date. He should put grocery shopping on his to-do list.

He was asleep on the couch when the kettle whistled, and just before he opened his eyes, he felt a presence in the kitchen. Without moving from his position apart from his left hand, he retrieve a knife from inside of the pillow he was sleeping on, and with a speed that could make Steve shut his mouth, he tossed the knife at the intruder.

Turns out, it wasn’t an intruder, per se. It was her, smirking, barely grazed by the knife that was now stuck in his kitchen corkboard.

“Good morning to you, too.” She said, switching off the stove. “You really shouldn’t leave your stove on. It’s a fire hazard.”

He blinked twice, scratching his head. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing. I was around the hood.”

“No, you’re not.” He disagreed, knowing full well that she wasn’t done with yesterday.

“No, I’m not.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sit on one of the bar stools. “So you’re spring cleaning. In the middle of the night. In summer.”

“I’m just making the most out of my vacation days. I only got a week of them.” He answered, getting up and walking to the kitchen to pour himself a cup.

“That’s a case for the labor union. You should sue.”

He chuckled, “I think I’ll be the one incarcerated, to be frank.”

“Oh. ‘Cause you’re legally dead, right?”

He licked his lips and observed her, “That’s not why you’re really here, Natasha. Not to discuss labor codes with me.”

She nodded, taking a sip from her cup. He sighed, “Are you angry?”

“Of course, but I’m still seeing if my anger was rightfully placed.”

“Well how much do you remember?”

Her eyes flickered down to her steaming cup, “This street. It’s familiar. I just don’t know _why_ I remembered it, but I know that there’s an old lady in this building. And there’s a street cat on one of the alleys without a tail that really liked to be rubbed under his chin. And that diner – I pass by that place every day on the way to the compound, without once going in, but I feel like I know how it looked like from the inside.” She blinked and looked at his eyes, putting her hands on the countertop. “But I don’t really know the correlation of these – these… patches? What does it have to do with me? There’s no common point.”

He waited for her to continue. She gestured to him, “And I realized, that – _well,_ it might have been you.”

“The old lady is Mrs. Truman. She actually walked in on us doing… you know.” He couldn’t help but laugh a little. She did, too. “And the cat’s name is Sandra Ball-ocks. He’s got bigger balls than any other street cats out there – you named him yourself.”

She actually laughed genuinely. First time he’d heard the sound since the skirmish last year. “I was a genius.”

“That you are.” He agreed, grinning like an idiot. God, he missed that sound.

Her eyes were glistening when she finished laughing, and she had to wipe the invisible tear in her eyes before she spoke. “I was happy here, wasn’t I?”

“Well I’m not sure about how you felt, but I did try my best to make you happy.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything to bring back my memories? You know you could.”

“It’s not really my call, Natasha. It’s yours.” He murmured, “I know how it feels getting my mind blended into smush against my will. You know how it felt like. I didn’t want that to happen to you again. I didn’t want you to feel like you’re some kind of toy who would have your memory messed with again, never knowing what’s real and what’s made up.”

“Those were my memories, Barnes.” She whispered back. “If it’s taken away from me, I’d want it back.”

He shook his head, “Not that way, no.”

“Fine. Would you rather help me get to know this story of myself? This… _us_?” Her green eyes were steady, focused, and if he looked enough, pleading. She was desperate in a way that she already knew he was going to say yes with just a little more nudge.

“Would _you?_ ” He looked at her questioningly. She nodded. He sighed, “You know that your memories of me were the only ones gone, right? That all of the others were still intact inside your head.”

“I thought about it a lot, Barnes, you know, looking at the picture you’ve given me – and goddamn it, I feel like I was missing that part of me. That it’s _the_ something.” She mumbled, her eyes lowering. “Look, I’m not saying that we should be together. I’m not even implying that you’d want a relationship with me – but I do hope that you’ll be kind enough to help me remember. I’m not going to take much of your time, but I like to feel the way I felt when I was with you.”

“And what’s the feeling you’re looking for?”

“Happy, I’m guessing.” She thought about it for a moment, feeling lost about basing sentiments from a single photograph. “Safe. Loved?”

He tore his gaze away from her face, and if he was still in her memories, with her sitting in front of him, in this kitchen, like they used to do every morning she’s here, the first thing that would come to his mind was to kiss her uncertainties away. “Well, you are loved. That, at least, I’m sure.”

“So how about it?” She asked, eyes hopeful. “Are you on board?”

_How about it, Barnes? Are you on board?_

It would be an emotional roller coaster, that much was clear right at this moment. It would be like walking in the rain and having your new socks drenched. It would be like ordering pizza with burnt crust. It would be like drinking milk without knowledge of your lactose intolerance. It would be like watching a tasteless movie with no climax. It would suck – and it would suck so much that he’d wished it was over and that he’d be looking for the only good thing in all of the bad things. And it would be her.

“Yeah, sure.” He conceded, putting his cup down. “That would be fine.”

She gave him a smile, and it didn’t escape his notice that her smile bore the same amount of equanimity that he got used to before. There were parts of his old lover that he could not befit to her guise these days, but he had always anticipated that the person that would’ve come out of that experience would be a different character. After all, there were parts of him instilled in hers that were taken away, and it didn’t matter because he’d like to get to know every version of herself that she’d be willing to introduce to him.

But the parts that were the same were astoundingly heart-warming. Such as the way she carried herself around this apartment, as if she’d ask what he would be cooking for breakfast, then would complain because he just had pancakes yesterday. Or the way she unintentionally traced her finger along the lines of his marble countertop when she was deep in her thoughts.

It seemed like everything and nothing had changed about her.

He closed his eyes for a moment to take everything in, then opened them again to keep himself on the ground. She was looking around the apartment, like she was memorizing the details and checking for the marks she had left. He finished his cup and went to the still-dirty bedroom to retrieve a dusty box from his closet. He tried his best to blow away the soot, but it didn’t do much to the state of the box.

She gave him a curious look when he laid it out on the counter in front of her. “What’s this?”

“For starters, this is your box.” He said, frowning at himself about how he looked like a really pathetic guy from a rom-com who keeps his ex-girlfriend’s items. _You’re on the worse side of the break up, Barnes_. “I put your things in here in case you wanna come and get ‘em back, or for instances such as this one, when you come searching for answers.”

Her eyes widened ever-so-slightly, immediately grabbing the upper flaps and looking inside.

“Believe it or not, you were very affectionate back then.” He grinned at the memory, “Always leaving notes whenever you haven’t had the chance to properly say good bye.”

She smirked and raised a red lace lingerie using her fingers. “Wow, I’m not sure but with the amount of underwear here, I’m concluding that we had great sex.”

“Best sex I’ve had in my life, hands down.” He froze when he saw her expression, looking down sheepishly. “Too soon? Is that weird?”

She nodded, then burst out laughing. “No, it’s fine. I should take that as a compliment and thank you.”

“It’s a lot to take in. You can take the box back to your place if you want.” He told her, a little tired since he hadn’t slept all that much the previous night and he was up all night cleaning. “Or you could stay here. I’m just going back to sleep. I trust you not to murder me without a fair fight.”

“Right, sorry. I’ll go and get these things sorted out. Just go rest and do your thing.” She picked up her box, understanding his circumstance and knowing that he would have helped her in any way if he wasn’t so sleepy. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He walked her to the door downstairs. “Sure, just text me the plan. I’ll be there.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, “Thank you again, Barnes. So much. I couldn’t even begin how much this means to me. I owe you a lot, and you can ask me for whatever. I know I’m going to take time, but I’ll try to be less than a liability to you.”

“Don’t overthink it, Natasha. I’m sure you will catch on quickly. You have always had ways of amazing me.”

She grinned and nodded as a gesture of farewell. He smiled to himself, scratching his head. _Maybe it’s a start of something. Might not be as bad._

Mrs. Truman was already checking her mailbox when he got inside, her cat trapped in her right arm, her crane in her other hand. “Is that you, Jimmy? It’s been so long since I last saw you!”

“I was overseas for work.” He lied, beaming warmly. “How are you, Mrs. Truman? How’s the hip?”

“Oh, it’s just awful, Jim. I think I might have ol’ Timothy fix the elevators. It’s his recommendation that I buy an apartment that high up.” She moped, “I’m finding it harder to climb the stairs every damn day, though my cat could use the walk. He’s just so lazy. ”

He nodded in understanding. “I can ask a friend if he’s willing to fix the elevator for a cheaper price. He’s a great mechanic.”

“Oh it’s fine, Jimmy. I’d hate to bother such a busy man like you.” She waved him off. “So was that Natalie I saw back there? Are you together again? It’s the first time in five months since I’ve seen you around this building.”

“No, no. We’re just really good friends now.” He replied, “I’m planning to clean the place, you know. Paint the walls something different. Probably refurnish. Looking for something new, I guess.”

“Oh, I have a magazine subscription for furniture! If you’d like, I’d lend some issues to you.”

“That would be great, thanks.” He bid her goodbye and went upstairs. To finally get some sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Harry Styles' song, From the Dining Table. Love that song. I cried a bit the first time I heard it, cried a bit more the first time I heard it live.
> 
> Please leave a review or comment. This has been sitting in my laptop for so long I didn't know if the grammar were all corrected haha.


End file.
